Monster Stories (Melancholic Euphoria's Tumblr Stories)

Fae Male x Human! Reader

These Violent Delights

For most of your life into your late teens, you always thought you had a follower. A follower or someone who watched over you like a guardian angel. Maybe it would've been seen as a bit odd or creepy to some, but to you, you thought not much of it; as if you had someone to protect you.

Your mother had told you otherwise. Many times, she had tried protecting you from the world, an overprotective mother, who too, grew up in a sheltered life trapped from the outside.

You see, all things lurked and hid in the darkest of places, coming out into the light as something or someone you could trust. A stranger who could manipulate you into thinking of them as nothing but harmful, until you find it too late and you're whisked away from a life you once knew.

You had found it odd, and it applied mainly to humans that many would've been given the lesson of never talking to strangers. But this applied to other species too.

The fondest memories you had since you were a child were when you would go to visit your grandmother, in a secluded part of the north-east part of your small town.

The mansion was large, with ten bedrooms, a flower-shaped rose-window in the top of the attic that you remember going up into to do tea parties. Each room was homely yet held possibly years of history.

The walls were old and decrepit: decades of some neglect could be seen from the amount of many trinkets and items your grandma Delores had collected, but it was homely, and always smelled like pine.

There was a simplicity to her large home, a rustic feel that you often didn't get when at home, and something that always called for you to return more and more.

Your mother like her own mother grew up in a household that was filled with more paranoia than freedom. All for certain beliefs and unknown truths that your family held for years. You had been unfortunate to witness yourself many times before.

Collecting your shoes to head to the back door to the garden, your grandma there either sewing or washing the dishes would stop all to come to you. It would follow with her putting charms in your pocket and an iron bracelet around your wrist before telling you time and time after again one simple rule:

'Do not go over the line.'

It was a simple rule that you couldn't forget, yet something so normalised with the number of times you had gone to play in the garden. The line was something simple: as if it had been drawn in salt with small mushrooms growing on the exact spot, it took up half of the garden, reaching just under the branches of the trees.

You never misbehaved when it came to that rule (simply that you were too scared what would happen and how your mother and grandma would react), so you stuck to playing far away from it, ignoring it as best as you could as you got on with your play.

But still, in the back of your mind, you thought you were being watched through the bushes, like there was a peeping neighbour watching in on you, but when you looked, you saw nothing.

The swaying of the trees danced through the wind, a call and whisper that danced through the air, and then you would be called in for lunch before you got too curious.

It continued and continued until you grew old of your dolls and small play, and you got older and found little time spent at your grandmas. She soon passed away when you were in your late teens, and that distant memory of playing there was something that plagued your mind; as if calling for you.

After a few years of cleaning out the old house, your mother told you that they were going to knock the entire building down, rebuild over it, and in that moment so rushed, you had told her your words of disagreeing, going as far to say that it would upset and disappoint your grandma.